


Foreign to the Tongue

by Stormkpr



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Background Nagron but not tagging them because they are background, Bartrios, Canon Divergence, Canon Fix, Canon Gay Relationship, Love, M/M, Reunion, Same with Craevia, eventual goat farm, fixit fic, hurt and comfort sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29609640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormkpr/pseuds/Stormkpr
Summary: My attempt at fixing canon for Barca and Pietros. So – here are the events of Season 1 and beyond for them, with their storylines vastly improved. Because remember...canon is just a suggestion.
Relationships: Barca/Pietros
Comments: 31
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The title, of course, comes from Pietros’ line in Season 1, where the idea of freedom is “foreign to the tongue” for him.
> 
> T/W: Canon-typical. References to past sexual abuse, coarse language, mentions of sex but no outright smut.

“Forever clean and yours to command.”

Pietros was not surprised when Barca had uttered the words and he intuitively understood their meaning. Barca’s hands at Pietros’ command. Simple.

Barca was a gladiator, Pietros a mere “porter” assisting with menial tasks inside the ludus. Anyone who had known only these two facts about the lovers might have been shocked to hear the gladiator say those words, to proclaim that his hands were Pietros’ to command instead of the reverse. Wasn’t Pietros “Barca’s boy”, a toy to use as Barca wished?

But no, Pietros was not surprised by the sentiment. He had seen it over the years, a subtle shift in Barca’s behavior. The markers were too nuanced to be detected by anyone else, but they were there. One or two instances when Barca backed down from a fight, making a joke instead of falling to punches. When he spoke with bravado at another gladiator, Pietros overheard it and understood it was mere bluster used to keep up appearances and the bite behind the words was gone. Barca even handled the birds with more softness than usual. Pietros had asked him about these small changes once, and Barca had said only, “One day we will be free of this place. When that day arrives, I shall shed the ways of the man I was before and live more as you do. I will become better man. As you are.” He had paused and said, “As you remind me of the man I once was, before blood and battle came to define me.”

Neither was Pietros remotely surprised when Barca had made it clear that he was purchasing freedom for **both** of them. Pietros provided Barca with sex, companionship, and a chance to exercise his affection for delicate things. And Pietros’ heart understood that Barca meant it when he whispered of love. There was never even an iota of worry that Barca would leave Pietros behind. That was fortunate for Pietros because he himself was smitten. Unlike Barca, Pietros had never been in love before. It hit him hard and deeply; it was heady, dizzying at times.

At the raucous party that rainy night, Pietros watched Barca depart to discuss terms for their release.

***

“To be a slave is to constantly have a broken heart.”

Pietros’ mother had spoken those words to him when he was a child and he had never forgotten them. He remembered them when his sister was sold away, and remembered them again when his dominus allowed his guests to do things to him that made him cry. He remembered the words when his mother grew too ill to work and was sold the mines, as another slave had whispered, ‘It would have been kinder to give her poison instead, but he couldn’t turn down the few coins he would get from selling her to the mines.’

And so the words echoed around inside his mind when Barca did not return that night. Each hour brought with it new levels of misery and anxiety and heartache, and there was nothing to be done but endure it.

And then there was Ashur the next morning, telling Pietros that Barca had left. Truly devastated, Pietros did not absorb all of Ashur’s words but he remembered the sentiment. Barca could easily find or purchase another lover, one younger than Pietros.

So Pietros’ mother’s lesson never felt more real than it had on that agonizing day or the ones that followed.

***

“Every man here has suffered loss. My wife died when she drank tainted wine. We must get up and tend to our duties no matter what weighs down our hearts.”

Pietros nodded and quietly replied, “Yes, Doctore.”

He had to swallow the retort, ‘At least **she** did not choose to leave you.’

***

“Would you help me?”

Pietros whispered the words to Spartacus the following morning as he handed him a water skin.

Spartacus’ eyes narrowed as he took in Pietros’ bruises. “Whose work is this?” he asked.

“Gnaeus,” Pietros whispered back. “He beat me when I refused his advances.” The words tumbled out quickly. “Perhaps you could say that I am yours. I know you do not favor boys or men. I would find a way to repay you, though I don’t know how. Anything to keep Gnaeus’ paws off of me.”

Spartacus got up, strode over to Gnaeus, and taught him a lesson using his fists. One of Pietros’ problems was put to rest for now. His heart remained shattered though, and there was nothing that Spartacus or anyone else here could do about that.

***

“He is not the first porter to find heart shattered at the hands of gladiator.”

Doctore spoke the words to Crixus inside Medicus’ room. Pietros had not intended to overhear but the conversation took place just as Pietros was bringing a water skin for the injured gladiator.

Crixus grunted in reply, and Doctore continued. “I wish the boys would avoid such entanglements, for these relationships only ever end in pain. Gladiators die in arena. Or they lose interest and begin to favor another porter. Or they are sold away to another lanista.”

Crixus grunted again. “I still do not believe it,” he rasped. “Barca would no more leave Pietros than chop off his own cock. I knew he was saving his coin.” Crixus stopped to catch his breath and then spoke again. “It was to be the two of them, farming a patch of land, living as husband and wife. That is what the beast wanted. What he spoke of.”

***

“Men say they love you and maybe they do at the time. Maybe they love you until one day they don’t or until they realize they never truly did.”

A female house slave spoke the words to another. Pietros heard them as he entered the kitchen, ready to carry the iron-cast roasting pot down to the one-armed cook, Euclid, in the ludus. He kept his head lowered as he took hold of the heavy pot.

He decided not to ask the women or ask himself whether they spoke of his plight. He was surviving now only by counting his blessings. When Gnaeus had approached him a second time, Spartacus had intervened. This time their scuffle had resulted in Gnaeus being pitched over the cliff.

Had Pietros been able to feel anything other than sorrow then he would have felt a cessation of anxiety. Instead he stood around with the others, listening as Batiatus railed at his champion for killing a gladiator. Numbly Pietros knew he must thank Spartacus someday though he did not know how.

***

“Perhaps he intends to come back for you.”

Crixus spoke the words to Pietros on the fifth day after Barca’s departure.

“Why would he not stop to bid farewell for the time being and inform me of his plans? And to warn Gnaeus and others to keep hands off me? What would be the purpose of leaving me here temporarily only to return for me later? Would it not have been better to just take me with?” Pietros paused and added, “He had no urgent cause to depart. He and I even broke words saying that we had no specific destination and would simply travel where our hearts desired.”

Pietros knew that questioning a gladiator was not wise or even allowable, yet he questioned Crixus just the same.

“I cannot explain it,” Crixus admitted. “Nothing about this sits right.” He took another breath and winced in pain.

Pietros wished that Crixus had answers. Because the prospect of Barca someday returning for him was one of the only things giving Pietros a reason to rise from bed, even as he knew that prospect was dim.

***

“I made inquiries, Pietros. No one has seen him.”

Spartacus’ words were direct but not delivered without sympathy. The Champion of Capua was granted greater freedom than the others, and was able to occasionally move about the city. Pietros asked him to learn what he could about Barca’s whereabouts.

“Gratitude,” Pietros replied quietly.

Spartacus placed a hand upon his shoulder. “I broke words about this only with a handful of people. Living inside the ludus, you might forget how large Capua is. Barca may yet be around; those who I spoke with simply might not have seen him.”

Pietros nodded, though he did not believe the man’s words provided any cause for hope. Pietros may have been somewhat sheltered but he knew how much all people loved gossip. And the Beast of Carthage could not hide even if he wanted to. If Barca remained in Capua, people would know of it. If he intended to return for Pietros, then he never would have left Capua. It was not as if Barca had any remaining family still in the land of the living; it was not as if Barca had to rush home to a dying parent.

Twelve days had passed Barca’s departure. Pietros returned to his work but Spartacus’ words continued to echo around inside his mind. As Pietros tended the birds, cleaned weapons, lit torches, or lay upon Barca’s bed absent sleep, he could not forget Spartacus’ words and what they signified.

Ashur must have been right. Barca had simply decided the cost was too high and decided to pursue another “hole”, one whose freedom need not be purchased. It stood as the only reasonable explanation.

The night turned into day, and more and more days slipped by, giving way to weeks and then months. Pietros alternated between feeling numb or gutted, and he preferred numb. He performed his tasks. He ate only enough food to keep him from collapsing, despite Doctore shaking his head and cautioning him to keep strength up. He held the birds. He grasped the clothing that Barca left behind, inhaling and realizing that Barca’s scent had dissipated. He watched as new gladiators entered the ludus. He fleetingly considered approaching one of them – there was a handsome German named Agron who rumor claimed favored men – but decided that as long as he did not require protection, he would avoid seeking a lover. He would not survive another heartbreak.

He did not, in fact, know if he would survive this one.

***

“Perhaps I can attempt to feel happiness for him.”

Pietros whispered the words to himself one evening as he conducted his sponge bath. He again dipped the cloth into the bucket and applied it to his arms and torso.

“He is free man now. He always dreamed of having freedom again. I claim to love him. Does that love not require a measure of happiness for the man and his improved circumstances?”

And yet Pietros was still stabbed by bitter pain and loss. The idea that Barca might now be enjoying his freedom with another man added to the hurt, and Pietros failed to muster happiness for his erstwhile lover.

“I stand selfish man then. And a jealous one. Very jealous of whoever he has found.” Pietros again gritted his teeth in anguish, at his own pain and envy and at his utter failure to find happiness for Barca.

***

“When the signal is given, you shall play your part.”

Pietros was unsure if Spartacus’ words were a question or a command, or perhaps both.

“I will, Spartacus,” he answered, his voice quiet as it had been since the day Barca had left.

The little Pietros had heard of it all sounded like madness. Slave rebellions were nothing new to the Roman empire, he knew, but they never ended any better than relationships between gladiators and porters. And yet Spartacus seemed to have all the pieces in place. And even if his plan stood flawed, Pietros owed the man and would have to fall to his bidding. Spartacus had saved Pietros from Gnaeus, so if the gladiator demanded anything – even something ridiculous such as Pietros taking up sword and doing battle against Roman guards - that is what Pietros would do.

And whether the plan was madness or not, Pietros knew he had naught to lose. He cared not if he ended up nailed to a cross or stoned to death in the streets as a lesson. Perhaps transforming his emotional pain into physical agony would provide a type of sick relief. The numbness over Barca’s loss had completely subsided over the past few weeks and Pietros now felt nothing but an overwhelming sorrow, as heavy as leaden weights. Lifting spoon to mouth required painful effort. The gladiator Duro had once pulled him aside and said, “Dear gods boy, you appear the most distraught slave in the empire. It truly saddens the heart to even look upon you.”

Pietros had muttered, “Apologies” in reply. Duro’s brother Agron had added, “Upon the next occasion when I win earnings in arena, I shall buy you wine just so that your mind may be momentarily removed from your heartbreak.” Duro had added, “What is the substance that the wealthy Romans use? Opium, I think? Our Pietros needs a dose of that.”

Pietros had forced himself to keep his head down and his thoughts closed to the brothers. His heart needed to remain impenetrable to any other man whether he stand as potential friend or lover. And Pietros never wanted to drink wine again, as long as he lived – not after the harrowing memories from the last night he drank wine. In the same fashion he never liked it when it rained, as Barca left him on a rainy night.

And so the day arrived and Pietros did indeed play his part, helping Mira overtake the guard and open the gate. Pietros was surprised at his own strength, forgetting how many heavy swords and shields he had carried over the years, how many times he had run upon the sands while weighted down with heavy armaments.

That evening, as Spartacus lit the flame and the rebellion erupted, Pietros worked with the other house slaves. He had forgotten what it was like to feel so alive. His blood rushed, almost to a dizzying point. Whether it was fear or excitement or shock Pietros did not know, but the way his blood pounded made him feel giddy. Like a human being and not just some wailing apparition.

The fighting continued and Batiatus was taken down, removed from this world. More time passed. (One hour? Many hours? A half day? Pietros did not know.) Pietros and the other surviving rebels prepared to leave the accursed house of Batiatus and regroup elsewhere while they still could. Pietros walked with a few other stragglers, his arms and back weighted down with sundry supplies. He heard sounds up ahead, saw people pointing, and perhaps heard his name. He heard the tramp of a horse.

And then Barca was there. Upon a horse. Pietros looked up at the sight – Barca’s hair in disarray, holding a knife between his teeth, blood upon his clothing. Pietros remembered dimly observing that the horse was of a chestnut color.

Pietros laughed, grew dizzy, and sat down upon the sand. He laughed some more, knowing that surely all of this – the revolt and Barca’s appearance – was a mere dream brought on by the frenzy of the rebellion. He reached for a handful of sand, feeling the grains slip through his fingers. His eyes glazed over. He heard Barca open his mouth and speak but Pietros could not grasp any of the words. He felt others rush towards his side, one of his fellow house slaves began fanning him and calling for water. If this was a hallucination it was a very life-like one. Barca’s voice sounded just like his real voice. The gladiator was still talking but Pietros still did not understand meaning.

He felt someone – was it one of the German brothers? – hoist him upon the horse behind Barca. He placed his arms around Barca’s torso, somehow realizing he had to hold on tight. Barca’s midsection felt warm, solid, real. Barca compelled the horse to begin moving slowly, keeping pace with the rest of the rebels. Pietros then looked down and noticed that Barca was missing most of one leg.

* * *

_**TBC** _  
_**Comments always appreciated!** _


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: Same as chapter one. Note that some attitudes expressed in this fic might be upsetting or hurtful for people with disabilities. Please be aware that these attitudes belong to the characters and not the author.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

“Leave, Barca, leave and dare not ever return!”

Batiatus’ directive was delivered with his usual flourish. And then the lanista had smiled and added, “Well, we made certain that returning would be a problem, did we not?”

One of Batiatus’ Roman guards either got carried away or was simply a sadist. He had chopped Barca’s leg with an axe. Half-conscious Barca knew that if he somehow lived, he would lose most of the limb. He used what waning strength remained to press on the screaming red wound as blood flowed around his hands, through his fingers.

“Should we not finish the job, Batiatus?” one of the guards asked.

Batiatus waved an arm in reply and made a face. “I am no murderer. He remains alive but unable to cause us harm again!” Taking one more look at Barca sprawled upon the ground, Batiatus said, “Take him and deposit him somewhere away from here.”

And so ended Barca’s attempt at purchasing freedom for himself and Pietros. Two Romans heaved him into a cart and left him somewhere on the outskirts of the city. By the time they tipped the cart and dumped Barca out, the gladiator had lost consciousness.

***

“You need not worry. I shall continue to take care of you.”

There had been moments of consciousness, moments of clarity, but they were all fleeting. Barca remembered wondering if this is what it was like for Crixus as he lay under Medicus’ care after facing off against Theokoles. Did he drift in and out, only remembering snippets? Was his brain this addled?

“I need….” Those were all the words Barca could manage. He opened his mouth but failed to speak again. He needed to get back to Pietros.

“Do not fear. You will be well but it will take some time.”

The voice belonged to a woman. That much Barca could recognize. He also understood that he lay upon a bed in a dark room. Pain assaulted his every sense. Wherever he was, he doubted it was the afterlife. He could smell a stew simmering in the next room and he heard sounds coming from the other side of the nearby window. His head throbbed.

“Just rest,” the woman said again.

***

“Why are you helping me?”

Barca had recovered enough to understand that his caretaker had saved his life and seen to his safety. One leg had indeed been severed, mid-thigh. And yet, as the woman had whispered more than once, Barca’s fever had broken, he was able to eat, he was able to sit up and speak and understand.

“I told you the story once before, but I think perhaps you were not fully conscious,” the woman said softly, in answer to Barca’s question. “So I shall tell it to you again.”

As the woman took a breath, Barca surveyed her appearance. She was not young. Her hair was gray, and wrinkles adorned her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her clothing placed her somewhere in Capua’s middle class, as Barca understood from his many travels outside the villa. She clearly was not poor, but she lacked the glittering jewels and silky garments favored by Lucretia.

“My name is Cornelia,” she said. “My brother found you dumped against the side of the road and brought you here. He knew I had a gift for healing.” She paused. “When you are conscious, you often ask how long you have been here. I count 23 days right now.”

Barca’s throat was dry as he stated, “You still have not said why you help me.”

Cornelia smiled and tilted her head. “It is true, my fingers have a gift for healing. But I also favor your people. Men of Carthage. I once had a lover who was of your people. He is gone to me now.”

Barca’s head swam. It was too much to take in. He had survived Batiatus’ wrath and survived his axe-wielding guard. He was safe for the moment, thanks to a Roman woman who fancied Carthaginian men. He would never walk again unaided, never again fight in the arena. And he clearly had no way to return Pietros right now.

“You remind me him,” Cornelia continued. “Your eyes. The shape of your face. Your coloring. It is almost as if my Denfir has returned to me.”

“I must,” Barca began, “take word to someone. Inside the house of Batiatus.”

“You must rest,” Cornelia insisted. “You should yet survive but the gods can be fickle. And as it stands, I have no way to send message.”

“Please,” Barca said. He opened his mouth to say more but his body and his mind were absent strength. It felt almost as if leather straps tied him to the bed.

“Rest,” she repeated, placing a hand upon his chest.

***

“Does he believe I left him?” Barca whispered the question to himself during one sleepless night.

“What else could have happened? Would Batiatus tell him that he told guards to beat and dismember me? No. He would not.”

Barca did not always excel at understanding and thinking through the motivations of others. Yet he had known Batiatus for years. As he thought through what might have happened on the rest of that fateful night, all roads led in one direction. There was also Ashur to take into account. What a fool he had been to trust Ashur! The Syrian would never tell the truth to Pietros either.

“They told Pietros that I left. He believes I left him. He believes I did not love him.”

And yet Barca bore more burdens. Pietros did not know that he had killed Ovidius’ son; Barca had lied about it. And even now if the gods somehow decided to work magic and reunite the two men, the fact remained that Barca was a cripple now. “He loved me for my strength, my power, my fighting prowess. I cannot fight again. I cannot even hold a spear unless I hold cane in the other hand.” The image was laughable.

Barca remembered that pig Gnaeus eyeing Pietros. Had he forced his affections on Pietros? And if so, how would Barca fight off Gnaeus now? Thanks to Batiatus and his men, Barca could not fight even a child, let alone a gladiator.

Melancholy. Barca had observed it in others before. When Carthage fell, he had seen many men – strong, powerful soldiers – fall to melancholy, unable to eat or sleep, unable to rouse themselves to do anything even when threatened with Roman whip. The destruction of their homeland and everyone who they had ever cared for was too great a burden to bear, so they fell to melancholy, not caring what befell them, living as ghosts. Barca recognized that he, too, had tumbled down into that pit now.

Barca spent weeks in the grasp of despair and misery. He ate a few bites of the meals Cornelia brought him and tried to give the appearance of listening when she spoke of her beloved Denfir. He bathed methodically, using the cloth and bucket Cornelia presented him each day. He lay upon his bed after the sun went down, rarely able to fall to sleep. But he lived down at the bottom of the deep pit.

***

“I must take message to Pietros.”

How long Barca languished inside that pit, he did not know. But the gods sent him a dream one night. It was Pietros, calling to him, saying that he needed help, saying that Barca needed to throw caution to the wind and present himself at the house of Batiatus. Spartacus had once rambled on about his wife having dreams that needed to be heeded. Did Barca now possess the same power?

And so Barca sat up when next Cornelia entered the room and broke words with her.

“Denf-Barca, I know we have broken words on this before,” Cornelia replied, doing as she often did and using her dead lover’s name on him. Her voice was always soft and soothing as honey, though Barca himself found it sickeningly sweet as of late.

“Remember what we have discussed. Neither you nor I can read or write more than our names,” Cornelia recapped. “And neither can Pietros. As you have suggested, perhaps we could draw a picture. Even if we did that and even if the picture’s meaning could be deciphered, I have not one spare coin to pay for scroll or messenger. And there yet remains the fact that your former master despises you and certainly would not pass message along. It is not as if your friend Crixus or one of the house slaves stands outside the gates waiting for messages! Any message would first be delivered to a Roman guard’s hands, and then onto Batiatus. Where the expensive scroll would be crumpled and thrown onto floor.”

“What about birds?” Barca asked. “Messenger pigeons.”

“It is a lovely idea and I understand that you favor them, but I have not coin to purchase them either! Even if your beloved saw one, how would he know what it means? Pigeons are common in Capua.”

Barca was silent for several moments. “I have no coin, but Crixus does – if he lives. Pietros has bracelets and arm cuffs that are worth at least a few coins. Perhaps your brother could loan you coin, and you would see it repaid by either of those means!” He wished he had something to offer her for payment, but he now owned nothing other than the loincloth he had been wearing that fateful night. Even his shoes had either been lost in the scuffle or taken and sold by Batiatus’ guards.

And whenever they reached this point in this discussion, Cornelia always responded with, “Shhhh. You are tired and you yet need rest. Have another sip of my potion and fall to sleep again. If the gods intend for you to see your lover again, they shall arrange it. For now, it is so good that the gods brought you to me. It is as if Denfir has returned!”

Barca struggled to not fall once more to utter despair.

***

Cornelia continued to bring food and tend to his wounds. Barca did what he could to remain strong, though absent one leg it proved a difficult challenge. He sometimes moved himself off the bed and onto the floor so he could press himself with the strength of arms and chest. He would kneel before the room’s chair to practice lifting it first with one arm and then the other. He needed to grasp at the wall in order to move, hopping on his remaining leg. He requested Cornelia also bring him heavy items to lift, and sometimes she would drag in a small dresser for him to work with.

Constant pains assaulted his head, his leg, and almost every other body part. His missing limb throbbed as well. However, even if Barca had been given a cane and stood well enough to venture outside, he was not certain that he could. Surely if any of Batiatus’ people spotted him, his luck would not hold a second time.

Pietros again returned to him in dreams, again called to him. Barca could neither ignore the dream nor the calling of his heart.

And then one night an idea came to him. During his long stretches of sleeplessness, he learned that every three nights, a horse and rider stopped near his window. The rider waited, then a man and a woman would exchange a few words, and the rider would move on. Barca noted the exact color of the sky and the number of hours since sundown.

Barca looked around his room. A torch upon a stand provided light; he had seen such stands before inside Batiatus’ house as well, the stand as tall as a man. He also knew that Cornelia usually slept soundly in the next room, her light snoring easily heard from the other side of the door. He knew, too, that she kept a sharp knife in her kitchen for cutting meat when she had it.

A plan began to take shape, but it would involve hobbling around using the torch stand as a cane. As a gladiator, Barca had moved with deadly grace but now he could only lumber awkwardly. He shook his head, lost in memories for a moment. Auctus had always been, by Barca’s estimation, the most graceful gladiator. What must he think now, watching Barca from the afterlife? Would he despise this new, crippled Barca? Would he laugh at him for risking his life for the chance to see Pietros again? Barca often wondered if Auctus and Cyprian were jealous from their places in the afterlife or if the dead ceased to feel emotions like that. Did they know that Barca had indeed cared for them, but absent the frightening ferocity with which he loved and adored Pietros?

And even more chilling thoughts followed. Was Pietros now among Cyprian and Auctus? A gentle bird like that inside the brutal ludus, with Crixus too weakened to protect him. And with men of the likes of Gnaeus eyeing him like a piece of meat.

Barca speculated that his childhood love Cyprian might, in particular, be drawn to Pietros. Cyprian was not unlike Pietros; he had never really wanted to be a fighter. Could they be together in the afterlife this very moment?

More thoughts followed. It had been months now since Barca had been thrown out like old garbage. Surely Batiatus had purchased more gladiators. If Pietros still lived, he might have found a new love. Perhaps a good man, one to protect him against Gnaeus. How would Barca, now crippled, win him back?

Barca took a breath. He had to know. He had to find a way to break words with Pietros and – if nothing else – tell the boy that he had not left him and never would have. Perhaps that might be the sum of their exchange, Pietros looking upon him with pity and disgust, content with his new gladiator. Pietros had a kind heart; he would find gentle words to tell Barca he no longer desired him. He would not spit as he looked upon Barca nor mutter the epitaph ‘pathetic cripple’. He would not be overly cruel about it, no.

As Barca’s plan continued to take shape, he wondered what he would do when he reached the villa on horseback. Batiatus had guards everywhere. But, Barca knew, plenty of slaves went in and out of the villa. There was the plump, older woman – Camila her name was, he thought – who went to market and procured foodstuffs. All of the house slaves seemed to love Pietros, so surely Camila would help! And if Crixus still lived, as champion he had some leeway. There was also a Roman guard, Felix, who Barca sometimes made wagers with and who seemed reasonable enough. So Barca had only to lie in wait and make contact with one of them.

His plan began to take shape. He would use the torch stand as cane and sneak out of Cornelia’s house, grabbing knife as additional weapon. He would overpower the horseman during the night and ride to the villa. Whatever it took to let Pietros know that he was loved, that he had not been abandoned.

Even if it meant Pietros scorning him for being a cripple or despising him for killing Ovidius’ son. Even if it mean laying eyes upon Pietros and his new lover. Even if it meant shattered heart.

***

_More soon!_

_Also, if you’re wondering where I came up with the name Denfir….Antonio Te Maioha who played Barca also played a character named Denfir on one episode of a show called “Legend of the Seeker”. Like many fans, I always find it fun to watch the actor of a beloved character in another role!_


	3. Chapter Three

_T/W: From here on out, please assume all previous trigger-warnings might apply to any chapter. Coarse language, frank references to sex, references to past incidents of non-con, and sentiments from characters that could be hurtful towards those with disabilities._

* * *

“Jupiter’s cock! You truly do live, brother! I thought the others were telling tall tales when they bid me to look upon the horseman. Let me help you down from the horse.”

Crixus spoke the words as he looked up at Barca and Pietros who both sat atop the horse.

The rebels established a base of operations underneath the city. Barca and Pietros simply followed the others until now when they would need to discard the horse and climb down into the cisterns to join the group.

“Assist Pietros first,” Barca replied to Crixus. “He is unused to riding atop horse.”

“Ha, nor are you!” Crixus chided. He then reached for Pietros and easily assisted him down.

Barca watched Pietros’ feet touch the ground. Barca remained atop the horse, looking down at the two men. It was time to dismount and make his way underground with the others.

Surely by now both Pietros and Crixus could see that he was absent most of one leg.

Barca was no stranger to the madness and panic of the battlefield, and he wondered how dazed Pietros must be. He imagined that he himself looked stunned. Never had he expected to return to Batiatus’ villa and find a slave revolt in progress! Perhaps the loss of one leg was a small matter, in the eyes of Pietros and Crixus, when the chaos of battle was yet fresh. Or perhaps Pietros’ mind just had not caught up with reality yet.

“We will find cane for you,” Crixus said, his eyes darting between Barca’s leg and his eyes. “We—“

“I shall be your cane in the meantime!” Pietros spoke up.

Barca looked upon Pietros again. The young man’s eyes were clear and he did not seem to have the battle-madness or the shock that Barca had observed in so many others. His brow was sweat-stained but Pietros otherwise appeared steady.

“I am stronger than I appear,” Pietros continued.

“Of that I have little doubt,” Barca said before his voice caught in his throat.

He allowed Crixus to assist him down, and then Pietros to take up at his side, supporting half of his weight. Barca looked at Pietros again. Did the young man see the hunger in his eyes, the yearning for Pietros’ approval and love, and the fear of rejection? Did Pietros’ calm appearance and loving hands belie the fact that he would discard Barca as soon as the opportunity presented itself?

Leaning into Pietros, Barca followed Crixus and, with no small degree of effort, the men descended into the rebels’ new base.

***

“Remain here. I shall find you both food and water.”

Crixus spoke the words to Barca and Pietros. The underground tunnels buzzed with activity, with freed slaves heading this way and that. Spartacus could be seen bringing order to chaos and directing people, though Barca did not envy him his task.

“No need, Crixus,” Pietros said. “The packs I carry on my back have both.” He looked down and added, “I know it is for the entire group, but we must spare one water skin and some of the oatcakes for Barca. I am sure he has had arduous journey.”

Barca watched Pietros speak and was proud of his poise. He spoke firmly with the gladiator, not deferentially, and it gladdened Barca’s heart.

Crixus nodded, slapped Barca on the arm, and said, “The gods bless us that you live, brother. Someday we shall have wine and you shall share the story. For now, I leave you to your boy.”

“What of Naevia?” Barca asked. He knew where Crixus’ heart lay and knew he needed to ask.

Crixus fell silent, shook his head, and walked away.

With that, Barca allowed Pietros to assist him to the ground, and the two sat on the cold ground, their backs against a wall. People continued to move all around them, some laughing and giddy with freedom, some stumbling around in shock, some moving with swift purpose. Barca barely took note of them. His heart began to pound. Conversation was not one of his skills. He had so much to ask, so much to learn. He forced breath in and out. If Pietros had another lover or if Pietros no longer desired him for being a cripple, Barca told himself he would learn soon enough and anxiety would at least give way to certainty. He would have his answer very soon. Along with possible heartache.

“You are alive!” Pietros said, grasping one of Barca’s hands. “And you-you came back for me?!” he added, the sentence coming out as a mixture of question and exclamation.

Barca grasped Pietros’ hand tightly. He recognized the look of joy upon Pietros’ face. Did it mean what he dared hope?

“I came back for you, only you! So that you would know that I never would have left you.” Barca’s voice broke as the words tumbled forth. “I dreamed of the moment for so long. Did-did you think me dead? Did you think I had left you?” Again Barca’s voice was like the yelp of a child.

“I did not know what to think!” Pietros exclaimed. “Crixus told me you would come back for me. Ashur told me you certainly had found another lover. And-“

“The toad! The disgusting toad!” Barca exclaimed. He also realized he had been ready to use the epithet ‘cripple’ to describe Ashur but had stopped himself in time. Ashur could surely move with far more ease than Barca now. The gods must be laughing.

“Tell me what did happen,” Pietros insisted. He still grasped Barca’s hands and looked into his eyes.

Barca’s heart pounded. It was still the same look, the same expression of love and wonder. Pietros had the look when they kissed. He had it when they took to bed as well too, though often they were in a position where Barca could not see his face. And Pietros had the look when Barca would present him with a gift. This had not changed.

Barca again forced himself to take in air and release it. Pietros may simply be in shock. His mind might not yet fully understand that Barca was a cripple now, still trying to make sense after the chaos of battle.

However, circumstances would seem to suggest that Pietros did not have another lover. If he did, surely the man would be here! Surely Pietros would not be grasping Barca’s hand and looking into his eyes.

“I shall tell you everything so that you shall know that I never chose to leave you, and never would do such a thing!”

With that, Barca recounted his story. Pietros listened quietly and his eyes grew damp. When Barca was nearly finished, Pietros pushed himself into a half-sitting, half-crouching position so he could fully hug Barca. He squeezed the former gladiator against himself.

“I am so glad you did not leave me,” Pietros wailed.

Barca’s heart split into two as he returned the hug. The agony Pietros had been through! May Batiatus and Ashur burn in the fiery underworld! Barca heaved, his breathing erratic. He fought tears even as he felt Pietros’ own against his neck and shoulder.

“Wh-what of you?” Barca asked, when he had purchase over his words. “Tell me of the past months for you.”

Pietros slowly broke from the hug. He sniffled and put a hand to wipe tears. “Let them now be only as bad dream!” he managed, shaking his head. “I would not think of them again.”

Barca gulped. He was quiet for a moment. “Did Crixus provide any sort of comfort to you, or aid if you needed it?”

“He was badly injured from Theokoles but he broke words with me. Spartacus helped me. When Gnaeus laid hands upon me,” Pietros said, looking down.

Barca closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His hand reached again for Pietros’ and grasped tightly. “Apologies. I could not be there to stop the brute. Does he yet live?”

“No. Spartacus sent him to the next life.” Pietros reached behind himself and unfastened the backpack he wore. “Come. Let us take water and oatcakes. My throat is dry as dust and I cannot recall when I last ate.”

“You appear….leaner now,” Barca observed. Pietros was already thin and did not have much leeway to become yet more lean.

“As do you,” Pietros replied. “I noticed it when my arms were about your waist upon the horse.” He took a breath. “For me, I did not wish to eat and some days it was a burden to lift spoon to mouth.”

“Same. And I did not have your hand to assist me as it had in the past.”

The two men took a few minutes to tend to food and drink. Rebels continued to mill about and rush off to tasks. A few gladiators took note of Barca as they passed and stopped for a moment to greet him. Each one looked down at his leg and none seemed to know what to say before awkwardly returning to their business. The one-armed cook from the ludus, Euclid, walked by and stopped in his tracks. “Serves you right, Barca, for all the times you bothered me!” he spat before heading on his way.

Barca chewed on more of the oatcake. He did not care so much for what the others said or did, not now. He was focused on Pietros alone. He wished he had Spartacus’ gift for words. What to say now? What to do? Pietros could see plain as day that he was absent one leg. And enough time had passed since Barca had dismounted the horse that surely Pietros’ mind had enough time to understand the situation.

Finally he found his tongue. “I shall never walk again unaided.” And Barca continued, “I shall never fight again. We surely stand at war with Rome now and I cannot fight.”

Pietros placed a hand upon Barca’s arm. “It will take some adjustment,” he said softly. “But you will come to accept it. The gods do strange things to us and yet we live on. We shall find you a cane, but until that is done, I shall be your cane!”

Barca watched Pietros’ face. Was it truly to be this simple? Barca’s head felt dizzy and he experienced a moment of confusion, wondering if any of this could be real. Was it all an elaborate fantasy? How could Pietros still desire him or still love him? Was not Barca’s manly ability to fight one of his only attributes?

However, before Barca could find words, Pietros continued.

“And we can still fuck,” Pietros said, simply and yet eagerly. “You do not need two legs for that! Perhaps upon our sides like spoons. Or with you upon back and me astride you.” He raised his eyebrows. “I could ride you like horse, since I now apparently stand able to ride one.”

Barca’s jaw dropped. “You still want me? A-a mere cripple? Who took months to be able to fight my way back to you?”

“Of course I still want you!” Pietros said passionately. “I feel as though I shall never be sad again! I cannot believe that the gods returned you to my arms.”

“Would that I had never trusted Ashur and never left them that night!”

***

Soon the rebels’ new base was put to order. Pietros glimpsed Spartacus meeting with Crixus and Agron, the warriors bent over a table and looking at a map, and he knew it must hurt Barca to not be included in their discussions. Pietros understood that he himself was as dazed as most of the other house slaves here. True, they had all known hardship in one form or another, but many of them lived their whole lives with Batiatus. Taking part in a rebellion and leaving their cages was difficult, even if their cages and masters were often cruel.

But as for Pietros, his mind and body buzzed. After having spent so many months deep in sorrow or entirely numbed, he now felt invigorated. Barca truly never had left him! Barca loved him as much as he always had! Pietros was certain that the gods gave both men a second chance in life, as if an error had been made but the fates now conspired to correct it.

The former house slaves Mira and Camila seemed to be in charge of organizing the workings of their underground camp as Spartacus and his main advisors plotted their next move. “We will eat, sleep, and bathe in shifts,” Camila ordered. She handed Pietros and Barca a mat, a thin blanket, and a bucket of water, and she told them to be ready for tasks in eight hours. She then took a pointed look at Barca’s leg and added, “Such tasks that you might be capable of.” She then gestured towards a corridor where others were already laying out mats and falling into exhausted slumber.

“And oh,” Camila added, eyeing Pietros’ backpack. “Hand that over. Mira and I are allocating all supplies.”

Pietros nodded and parted with the backpack.

A moment later, Aurelia happened by. Her skin was ghostly pale and Pietros imagined she was in some sort of shock. She carried a walking stick. “Mira found this. For you,” Aurelia said, her voice thin like gossamer as she thrust the stick in Barca’s direction.

“Gratitude,” Barca said, taking hold of it. It appeared sturdy enough to bear much of his weight, though Pietros imagined that Barca’s remaining leg must be sorely overtaxed.

Pietros then spread out the mat that he and Barca had been allocated. The person closest to them was already snoring upon their own mat.

“You must be exhausted,” Barca said.

His voice contained the usual rich, warm tone he used when speaking with Pietros. Listening to it, Pietros felt, must be what it is like to drink ambrosia. He had to blink once more and remind himself that this was truly happening. Barca had defied all odds to return.

“I am not, though I imagine the exhaustion will overtake me at some point,” Pietros answered straightforwardly. He patted the mat and then reached a hand up towards Barca. “Let us rest anyway, especially since we will be put to work soon enough.”

Barca accepted the hand and lowered himself onto the mat. Pietros felt that the former gladiator moved with a surprising measure of grace.

“What befell the birds back in our cell?” Barca asked.

“I took care of them as always and let them fly right before we departed the villa. As you and I had discussed, they would take their freedom when we took ours.”

“They were lucky to have you as caretaker.”

Pietros detected sadness in Barca’s voice, so he reassured Barca, “They offered me a measure of comfort. I missed you with every breath and at times their presence seemed to mock me, but I always enjoyed holding them and cooing at them.”

“I am glad for it,” Barca said. He then asked, “Shall we sleep as we used to upon the bed inside our cell? Side by side?”

“Yes.” They easily fell into position, Pietros in front of Barca, his back to Barca’s chest. Barca placed his side with the full leg towards the mat, so as to avoid pressure on his side with the severed leg, Pietros imagined. Both men reached for the blanket and spread it over themselves. Pietros felt Barca place one arm across his chest and he luxuriated in the feel of being close to him again, the warmth emanating from his body.

Pietros turned his head around and whispered, “We could fuck now, too.”

He heard Barca sharply take in a breath. “Absent oil?” he breathed. “And with so many others around?”

“The latter never stopped us inside our cell where any and all looked in on us!” Pietros said, with a laugh.

Barca chuckled. “I sometimes wondered if you enjoyed it. The fact that some of the brothers became spectators.”

“Of course I did. I am certain that plenty of the gladiators secretly envied me as did half of our Roman guards,” Pietros smiled. “And as for oil,” he said, his voice returning to a whisper, “we have some.”

“How?” Barca asked, sounding truly flustered. “Camila bade you give up your backpack.”

“Not before I took a flask and placed it in the folds of my loincloth. I knew that we would be required to part with supplies soon enough, so I made preparations.”

“You are ever wise.”

Pietros then turned from his side to his back. He looked upon Barca. This new place was cold and dank, the floor chilly despite the mat and blanket, and loud conversations echoed off the wall including a screaming match between two former house slaves. And yet Pietros was ecstatic. He gently pulled Barca down for a kiss. Barca returned the kiss, and Pietros delighted in the feel of the lips of the man he loved. He enjoyed having Barca’s body alongside his.

“You still want me?” Pietros whispered. He realized that earlier Barca had asked him this question, but Pietros had not returned the ask.

Barca appeared taken aback. “Of course!” he whispered back, hoarse, his tone clearly shocked that such a question could be asked. He swallowed. “I cannot believe that you want me.”

“I do with all of my heart!” Pietros again pulled Barca down for another kiss. They would block out the rest of the world, they would love each other as if they were upon a grassy field on a summer’s day. They would allow their bodies to communicate the rest for now. There would be awkward moments and it would take time for them to find a new rhythm but they would find their new pathway together.

***

TO BE CONTINUED

_Note: You probably already figured out that I really wanted to fix canon, find a way for Barca and Pietros to survive and be a part of Spartacus’ rebellion – while also explaining why we never see them in Vengeance or War of the Damned. (wink, wink) So this is my attempt at explaining it. They were there all along, just in the background like Camila (who we see in a few scenes in Vengeance) or Euclid (who can be spotted in the background of a scene in Sinuessa)!_

_More to come soon; please let me know what you think!_

***


	4. Chapter Four

Pietros barely slept that night. He kept waking up in order to ascertain that Barca remained beside him, that it was not all a dream. His changed surroundings, too, kept him from slumber, his sense of equilibrium completely upended simply by being out of the ludus for the first time in years. He had to remind himself that he had taken part in a slave revolt and had fallen from the status of slave to enemy of the republic.

The cold seeped in through the thin mat, though that did not worry Pietros’ mind too much. He had the warmth of Barca beside him, and his mind and heart were warmed by the fact that Barca truly had always loved him and never had wanted to leave him. Barca’s words over the years had been true, his declarations of love honest. It was only Ashur and Batiatus’ treachery and violence that had kept them apart.

As sleep continued to evade Pietros, his mind spun rapidly. What now for Barca, for the two of them? They were now part of a rebel army - but neither could take to arms and fight. Barca may have presented himself as a battle-hardened warrior who could endure anything, but his new circumstances surely were difficult for the man. Pietros was not blind or deaf to the brief interactions with the other gladiators, those who had walked by earlier and greeted Barca, some of them openly gaping at his absent leg, others looking confused. Even as he and Barca had enjoyed each other’s bodies last night, someone had happened by (Rhaskos perhaps, Pietros thought?) and called out, “He may be lame but he can still fuck!” Pietros suspected that Barca was in for much teasing, bewilderment, and outright offensiveness from his “brothers”.

And Barca, as Pietros knew, had learned from an early age that his only worth was in his ability to fight. His father had only blessed Barca when he stood as warrior. The turmoil that must be inside his head now!

After many hours passed, Pietros was taken from his thoughts and worries when people began to file into their area, and Camila – who looked as though she had not slept at all – began to rouse people from their slumber. “Give up your mats and blankets. It is time for the second shift! And we have work for those of you who took to rest.”

Pietros and Barca looked at each other and greeted the morning – or whatever time of day it was – with a kiss. And then they were put to work. Sitting side by side, they were first put to tearing strips of fabric into bandages, and then handed two large sacks of peas and told to shell them.

“We wanted to purchase a scrap of land and farm,” Pietros observed. “And here we are, shelling peas!”

Barca grunted, a slight laugh. “Your hands stand far more nimble than mine.”

“I am sure you will master the work soon,” Pietros replied. He then swallowed and decided it was time to break words on the subject. “Is it difficult?” he asked quietly. “Becoming accustomed to only one leg?”

“I have had months to ponder it,” Barca said, his eyes upon his work. “Though truly all I thought about was how I might return to you.”

Pietros smiled and placed a hand atop Barca’s thigh. Because of the way they sat, it happened to be the thigh that was severed from all that had been below. “Does it hurt terribly?” he asked, looking down at it.

“No more or less than any other wound I’ve had.” Barca’s words were straightforward.

Medicus had stopped by earlier and looked at the wound. He had nodded and said, ‘No puss, no discoloration, whoever tended you did well.’ He had left it at that.

Barca then continued, “But yes, our dream of purchasing land and farming…that dream must be set aside forever more. We stand as rebels now.” He glanced down and added, with a smirk, “And I could not do much farming now anyway!”

Pietros nodded, and Barca had more to say. The Carthaginian continued, “Fate has brought us back together when all had seemed hopeless. So I shall not mourn the passing of our other dream.” He looked at Pietros as he spoke, his eyes soft.

“Nor shall I. And you are a free man once more!” Pietros enthused.

“Another dream of mine. To once more be free man,” Barca admitted. “But all dreams pale at being reunited with you….and the knowledge that I still have your love.”

“Of course. For all eternity!”

***

Several days passed. Barca spent his time at Pietros’ side working on whatever tasks he was able. All the former house slaves spent their waking hours doing whatever was needed to assist with the provision and preparation of food, water, medical supplies, mats, and blankets. Barca often found himself working alongside Euclid or Camila, and he understood that in the estimation of most, he had fallen far.

The fighting men, the former gladiators, risked occasional trips to the surface in pursuit of necessary supplies. Barca spoke with Crixus a few times, and he sat and watched his brothers as they rapidly moved and prepared for such trips. Many of them spent their days practicing sparring; unused to many other pursuits, the gladiators just naturally took to practice combat. Barca watched the one who Pietros said was named Agron. His practice sparring contained a particular fury; Pietros had said that the German lost his brother during the rebellion. Barca almost grinned thinking of the Romans this Agron would take down. He looked to be among the best fighters here, right alongside Crixus and Spartacus.

Barca’s emotions during these days were as he expected them to be. Many times over the years he had been forced to swallow pride and absorb pain, and he put those skills to the test now. Barca stood assaulted by envy at watching the other gladiators practice and more envy yet at watching them prepare to go to the surface. He stood hurt by the ones who would not look upon or speak to him. He stood grateful for the ones who still treated him like a brother. Crixus was the best of course, and Spartacus – so spurned and downgraded by Barca at the ludus – even broke words with Barca a few times, asking him to observe Rabanus and give him tips to better use his spear. Agron, too, seemed to make a point to speak to Barca as an equal. Barca observed that Agron and Spartacus were close.

Beyond his envy, Barca sometimes felt bewilderment too. Why would Pietros not prefer any one of these men now? It bore no logic. Plenty of them were desirable. Agron especially. It was said that Agron favored men, and Barca could see that the gladiator was not just strong and formidable but also kind and smart – and very appealing to the eye. Tormented by his brother’s death, yes. But Agron still had so many compelling qualities, and he had no lover here so he stood available. Barca could only catch his breath and marvel at the depth of Pietros’ love. Because nothing else could explain why Pietros did not leave Barca and rush into Agron’s arms.

Indeed Pietros’ love was the balm that healed all of his wounds. When one of his gladiator brothers refused to speak with Barca and another failed to even make attempt to disguise the pity he felt, Barca could ignore the slights and just remind himself that the gods had returned Pietros to his arms. That more than made up for the stares and giggles lobbed at Barca by those who must have thought that he was absent eyes and ears now too.

“You would have done the same for me,” Pietros said quietly one evening as they lay upon their mat. They had been discussing the changes for Barca, the treatment from his gladiator brothers, the challenges of navigating the world on one leg.

“Yes,” Barca answered, glad he had brought the subject up. “You know of my affection for delicate things. I would have been happy to care for you, as you now do for me.”

“You do not require that much care,” Pietros insisted. “With the cane, you can do almost everything that I can do. True, you must hold it with one arm, but your other arm is as strong as the arms of three men combined!” He paused and added, “And of course tomorrow we must fashion you a proper crutch.”

They had discussed that before. The cane was useful, but Barca needed a solid crutch, with a top that would rest under his armpit and a handle further down for him to grip.

“In due time,” Barca said. “For now our other duties appear endless.”

“It is good to be busy. Until our next move is planned and until we are to depart this place.”

“Yes.”

Pietros then squeezed Barca’s arm, the one that was draped across his chest. “I am glad that you break words with me on this topic.” His voice somber, he added, “I had feared you might bear it all silently. I much prefer that you share with me what is on your mind!”

Barca nodded. “I shall not make that mistake again. I will give you my words and thoughts.”

“The same as you give me your cock,” Pietros whispered back, grinning.

The gods be praised for it – the two were still able to have sex. It had required some adjustment and some humor. Several positions that Barca had loved were closed to them now though; he had always enjoyed standing up with Pietros either upon his knees on the bed or standing before him and bent over. Those were but a memory, but the couple made do with plenty of other positions.

“As soon as we find more oil, you shall have it again,” Barca said. “In the meantime, allow me to put my mouth upon your cock. I would enjoy that.”

“As would I,” Pietros smiled.

Barca had not consciously used sex as a distraction from his vow to no longer make the mistake of failing to break words with Pietros. But he knew that there was one subject yet to be discussed: Ovidius’ son. Barca had not yet told Pietros that he had, in fact, killed the boy at Batiatus’ command, and then had lied to Pietros about it. Barca wondered about the subject often. When he finally summoned courage to discuss it with Pietros, how would he react? Would Pietros understand a slave’s lot, having been born into it, knowing that every movement had been absent choice? Would he understand that and yet feel fury that Barca had not simply told the truth? Would that be the day that Barca finally lost Pietros, and that Pietros set out for the arms of Agron or another?

Barca did not know, and his courage failed him. He had no plans to break words on the matter. And yet he knew Pietros would not forget. The young man had a strong memory and he loved to speak with Barca about any and all matters. Pietros would someday bring the subject to the foreground.

And Pietros had such a kind and loving heart. He would not abandon Barca for being a cripple but would he abandon him once he learned what he had done?

***

Crixus approached Pietros one morning as the rebels finished up their breakfast rations.

“We have knives and swords that could bear sharpening,” Crixus said.

Pietros nodded. “Although that stood as my job at the ludus, let us take them to Barca. I think he would enjoy the work.” With a wry smile, he added, “Certainly more than he enjoys washing blankets or picking pebbles out of a sack of oats.”

“You do well at looking out for his interests,” Crixus said as they walked down the corridor to locate Barca. “I always knew back at the ludus that you and he had more than an exchange of sex for protection.”

“Indeed,” Pietros said. “I always knew I had the better bargain as I enjoyed both his protection and his skills upon the bed!”

Crixus smiled as he lightly slapped Pietros’ back.

When they found Barca, the Carthaginian smiled. “You look well today, Crixus. Is there news on Naevia?”

“You know my heart well,” Crixus answered. “We have a possible lead. Rhaskos and I shall take to streets to explore it today.”

“I only wish that I could accompany you,” Barca said with an intense look upon his face.

Crixus touched his arm. “Sharpen these weapons well and see yourself part of the effort!”

***

Several more days passed and although efforts to find Naevia were not fruitful, Spartacus had a plan. The group would travel to a remote villa and establish headquarters there for the time being. Their current location would no longer serve, and remaining in one spot for too long would always run risk of discovery. It was time to relocate. So Spartacus and the other warriors would lead the effort to liberate the villa, and the non-combatants would follow later, in small groups so as to not draw attention.

“We should toss you into the cart with the other supplies!”

A gladiator made the joke, looking at Barca, as a second gladiator stood by and laughed. Nearby, two former house slaves filled up a cart with various goods, readying for departure.

“Just a joke, brother!” the man continued. “Do not have that look upon face.”

Barca bit his tongue as he maneuvered away from the two laughing warriors. At least now he had a crutch and it had indeed made it easier for him to get around.

As Barca silently put distance between himself and the two ‘brothers’, he pondered his circumstances. Having survived inside Batiatus’ ludus longer than almost any other, Barca had tormented almost every other gladiator here at one point or another when they had stood as recruits. Should he have been kinder when they were new? But no, kindness back then would have been mocked. Barca knew that he had behaved in the ludus in a manner befitting a fierce gladiator.

Well, in any case, the fates had turned the tables and the two warriors laughed at Barca now. There was not much for it other than to silently bear the taunts. More than once over the years, Barca had silently bourn it when Romans had used him at one of Batiatus’ parties. He would again bite his tongue today and only wish that circumstances were otherwise.

***

“We have not bathed inside a tub since the ludus. I forgot how decadent it feels.”

Pietros spoke the words to Barca when they had, at last, reached the villa. The villa had been overtaken easily, and Spartacus’ people had soon executed their plan and moved in. Pietros and Barca were fully enjoying usage of one of the bathing pools, along with dozens of others who were scattered about and luxuriating inside each of the villa’s many pools. It was a nice change from the bucket and cloth method of washing that had been used inside the sewers.

Pietros had needed to assist Barca into the pool, and someone at the other end of the pool had gaped open-mouthed at Barca’s stump as if he had never before seen a severed limb. Pietros made a concerted effort to ignore the person, and he guessed that for Barca doing so had already become second nature.

“And the glorious warmth of the place,” Barca replied, titling his head up. “This bath and the villa itself. I hope to never live underground again.”

“I had enjoyed a few days free of Capua’s oppressive sun. But then it grew quite tedious being underground and I missed the sun’s warmth,” Pietros agreed as he ran his fingers through the water. Wealthy Romans had such an abundance of luxuries such as these while slaves like Pietros had toiled under the sun for hours with barely enough water to keep them from fainting.

Crixus came by. His features were drawn; it seemed he was no closer to locating Naevia.

“I bear a gift for you,” Crixus said, bending down towards Barca and Pietros.

“What sort of gift?” Barca asked.

Rummaging around in his garments, Crixus presented the couple with stalks of aloe. “The plant is inside the room I was given. I understand the substance inside the stalks is like oil and can be used for fucking.”

“It can,” Barca said. “I have used it in the past. Gratitude.”

“Yes,” Pietros added, with a smile. “Much gratitude.”

Spartacus and his top generals like Crixus and Agron had been assigned their own rooms inside the villa – the contents of which they were apparently allowed to help themselves to. Barca and Pietros would join the masses in sleeping atop mats in the hallways. At least the villa was plentiful with bedding supplies, far superior to the ones they had been using.

As Crixus took his leave of the men, Barca sighed.

“Give voice to thoughts,” Pietros said quietly. Sitting next to Barca inside the pool, he put a hand upon his back.

“I am certain that you know them already,” Barca said simply. “I should stand among Spartacus’ leaders. We could have our own room and proper bed.”

Pietros smiled. “I have never had proper bed in my lifetime. The one inside our cell at the ludus was the softest I had ever rested head upon. I care not for that sort of thing.”

Barca gazed downwards. “I understand and I know that I cannot let this matter eat away at my guts.” He then turned his head to meet Pietros’ eyes. “I still stand uncertain as to who I am if not the beast of Carthage. If not strong warrior.”

Pietros gazed back at Barca. “You are my loving husband,” he said quietly. “As I stand your devoted wife.”

“Part of the duties of husband is to take care of and protect. And I….” He broke off and took a moment to digest Pietros’ words. “But if you do not consider me a failure in that regard then I would be honored to stand as your loving husband.”

Pietros smiled. “Crixus always referred to the two of us as such.” He shook his head. “During those terrible months when you were gone, he said words to the effect, though I could not take them in at the time; I was too weighed down with grief. Let us consider it as official as the Romans would consider one of their bargains written upon a scroll. Husband and wife.”

Barca nodded. “Let us do so.” He reached for Pietros and pulled him into a kiss.

Later, when Pietros was assisting Barca out of the bath, someone walked by and commended him for not abandoning Barca. Pietros wondered why so many seemed to believe that Barca was absent hearing.

“I am the fortunate one,” Pietros said firmly, glaring at the speaker.

***

“I would like you to watch and observe training sessions. No, you cannot partake but I believe that a spectator might notice things that a man directly involved in the fighting will not. You have a keen eye.”

Spartacus made the request to Barca later that day, at the villa. Barca had barely exchanged words with the leader since their days back at the ludus; Spartacus was always occupied and they had never been friends in the first place. Barca briefly wondered if Crixus had put Spartacus up to the ask, but regardless of where it originated, he appreciated it.

“We do find ourselves with many house slaves to convert to fighters,” Barca said, meeting Spartacus’ eye. Indeed the villa buzzed with activity as the original rebels took stock of the newly-freed house slaves. Word had it that a vocal, sharp Syrian stood among them as one who wished to train as fighter – and who had already captured Agron’s eye.

“However the best training is by doing, and I can no longer balance while holding spear or sword, let alone move quickly,” Barca continued, shaking his head.

“The group to begin training is new to all of it. You can show them basics, such as how to hold a sword. You can describe to them what stance to take with their feet. And, as I said, observe from a distance. Point out to them when they make common mistakes such as lowering guard to strike. Distance gives a man perspective unseen by those who stand too close.” Spartacus was insistent. He also, Barca observed, was not to be disobeyed. When the man wanted something, it had a way of happening.

“I shall then,” Barca agreed. He saw no reason to give further argument to Spartacus. True, some of the new trainees might not deign to take advice from a one-legged man. Barca would deal with that when it happened. Perhaps whatever the outcome, it would be good to fall to work with which he was familiar.

“They start their training soon, upon back courtyard,” Spartacus said, pointing. “Pay close attention to the Syrian named Nasir. He may be slight of stature but there is ferocity there that can be honed to great use.”

***

Pietros found that his time at the villa was nearly as busy as his time at the house of Batiatus. He was never absent tasks, especially given that he was healthy, able-bodied, and strong. And as Pietros had always known well, the work of providing food, drink, medical care, and hygiene to large groups of people was simply endless.

Still, when he heard that a group of former house slaves were to begin training to fight, he took time out of his current assignment – washing clothes and bedding – to observe. He smiled to see Barca clearly playing a role in the operation. He stood aided by crutch and seemed to be providing direction. Pietros was too far away to hear all of it, but it appeared that the trainees were heeding Barca’s words. Pietros did not observe any trainees with smirks or eye rolls or other blatant signs of disrespect. Pietros did overhear one trainee say to another, “He is legendary beast of Carthage, who survived dozens of bouts in the arena. We should listen.” Of course Pietros had to block out the other person’s reply, filed with pity: “It is so sad to see that he is absent one leg now. Poor man.”

Pietros returned to his duties. He and Barca were next able to speak with each other late in the day. They sat together at a table when it was their turn for dinner rations.

“I hope I was not too harsh with them,” Barca said. “They were mere house slaves, not warriors.”

“I suppose it is difficult to find the right balance,” Pietros said. He took a sip of his wine. It had been heavily watered down but was still a pleasant change of pace. “You cannot be too hard – nor too easy -- on them. If we are to spend our lives fighting against Roman soldiers we must be prepared.”

“Indeed,” Barca said. “I overheard Crixus and Agron arguing about when and how to obtain more fighting men.”

Pietros smirked. “I am surprised you observed Agron doing anything other than… _observing_ the Syrian.”

“Nasir is his name. And Spartacus was correct. Tiny man with the spirit of viper. He stood as most promising of the trainees today.” Barca paused and added, “I am gladdened to see Agron so obviously smitten.”

“Yes,” Pietros said earnestly. “He needs something to turn his thoughts away from his brother’s passing.”

Barca chuckled. “Yes. Though I must add that I stand even **more** relieved that I do not need to fear his affections going in your direction.” He shook his head. “I truly cannot believe he never approached you in the ludus.”

Pietros looked down at his plate. “He joined the ludus when I was as if a wraith, gutted at your disappearance. I do not believe that any man would have found me appealing.” He added, “And from what I do recall, his mind was occupied back then with protecting his brother.” Pietros took another bite of his eggplant slices. Such a simple dish, but back at the ludus even something like eggplant had been a luxury for mere slaves. Oil and salt brought out its taste.

Barca nodded, “Yes but every man has his needs. He could have pursued you. I wondered if there was something wrong with his cock.”

“He clearly prefers a man with much feistiness, of which I had little back when we met,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “And perhaps he simply does not find me comely.”

“Impossible. There cannot exist any man who favors men who would not seek you out,” Barca said.

Pietros began to realize that Barca truly was bewildered, despite all the logical explanations laid out. He understood now that Barca was simply too smitten to understand any potential rationale for Agron’s lack of interest in Pietros. “You are so beautiful and beguiling in every way,” Barca continued, and his eyes glowed a bit.

“You shall make me blush! Husband.” He tilted his forehead to rest against Barca’s, and touched gentle fingertips to the side of his face.

* * *

To be continued....please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter Five

The next day began before the sun rose, Camila put Pietros to work on food preparation, while Barca was to resume training new recruits as soon as there was sufficient light. Pietros quickly procured a bucket of water so he and Barca could wash before beginning their day, as they had not been able to do so yesterday. And then with a kiss planted on Barca’s forehead and a glance ensuring his crutch was near, Pietros departed for the kitchen.

As he scrubbed vegetables and kept his eye on the vat of beans, Pietros could glance out the window and observe part of the training of the former house slaves. The kitchen was close enough that he could hear their words occasionally too. Barca had clearly been _changed_ by all of his experiences, Pietros saw. No longer did the Carthaginian spew his usual taunts of ‘are you unable to handle my long, hard spear?’ and the like. Barca spoke little upon the training grounds, and when he did his bravado was gone and his words were straightforward, advising trainees when they gripped sword incorrectly or struck without forethought.

“I stand surprised that you do not wish to train,” Euclid said, standing nearby and stirring a pot.

“I as well,” Camila added, walking by quickly, her arms laden with various supplies. “You are young and strong and healthy.”

“Me?” Pietros laughed. “A warrior?”

“You scoff but the boys out there do not stand as warrior any more than you do,” Euclid said, tilting his head. “At least as of yesterday they did not.”

“Strange that neither you nor Barca thought of it,” Camila added. She then pointed to a sack, “Hull that barley next.”

Pietros nodded at the order. His brow remained furrowed at the rest of their conversation. “We-we never thought of it because the idea is so…foreign. I took care of weapons at the ludus but I never once fought.”

“Neither did these young men,” Euclid said, again tilting his head. “And women. We need every fighter.” He then coughed and added, “But I suppose the beast of Carthage will never allow it, will he?”

“I do not know,” Pietros said, turning his gaze away. He suspected the correct answer. And yet he also knew that whether or not Barca would approve was not the issue at hand.

“He would hit us with crutch if we even suggested it!” Camila cackled.

Pietros glanced upon the courtyard again. There again was the Syrian young man, Nasir, fighting with aplomb. He almost seemed to hiss at times. Nasir was shorter than Pietros and certainly no more broad of shoulders nor bulky of arms.

Pietros thought about Euclid and Camila’s words for the rest of the day. They were right. If this rebellion had a chance of succeeding and each person here did not wish to find themselves nailed to a cross, then every one capable of fighting would need to be trained on sword or spear. And indeed almost every person was out on that courtyard training, absent those too injured or ill.

Or afraid.

***

“Fuck!”

Barca stumbled and nearly lost his footing, despite clutching the crutch. As the training session had begun to wind down, Barca had been unable to resist doing more and had tried to demonstrate a move, a particular thrust of the sword.

The two young trainees stood nearby and exchanged a look. Barca looked down and then glanced at Crixus who had been leading the session today.

“We are almost done for the day,” Barca said in a low voice. “You fought well.”

The two awkwardly mumbled the word ‘gratitude’ and left it at that.

As Barca set out in search of Pietros, he gripped the crutch tightly. Pietros was the one person who understood his heart and who encouraged him to break words instead of swallowing it all down. Barca took a breath. The last few months since his ill-fated encounter with Batiatus and Ashur had seen him deal with many things. There had been the grief and shock at first, coupled with the physical pain - despite Cornelia’s best efforts to tend to him. (Barca sometimes wondered where Cornelia was and if she was well. He owed her his life even as the woman irritated him with her constant talk of her deceased lover Denfir. Barca never made much apology for the fact that he could only afford to care about only a few others….Pietros mainly, of course, with a little left over for Crixus and small portions for those of the brotherhood, minus the ones who now mocked him). When Barca had been reunited with Pietros, he had spent weeks feeling mostly euphoria over the knowledge that Pietros still lived, still loved him, and the fates had given them a second chance. Pietros’ heart had been open and ready to receive love as always.

But now, here at the villa for just a couple of days, Barca was experiencing new feelings. Watching men and women struggle to become fighters, looking at the determination in their eyes, and seeing how even the most novice among them still moved with ease. An ease forever gone from Barca. That tiny Syrian already stood a better fighter than Barca now. Anger and frustration welled up inside of him. At least in the past, Barca had possessed ample methods to rid himself of rage. But the ludus and the arena were gone to him as well.

Barca took another breath, his free hand clenched into a fist. No. No self-pity. It would destroy him, he knew….and Pietros did not need a lover who sulked over matters that could not be changed. Barca did not want to provide Pietros an excuse to seek another man’s arms. Indeed the young man already had ample reason to seek another, despite their vows to one another to live as husband and wife.

He found Pietros taking a break, sitting upon their mat. As the case for so many others, their mat simply lined one side of a long hallway. People slept, napped, and fucked upon their mats absent concern for privacy. Only those given their own rooms possessed the ability to tend to their business behind a door.

“Barca!” Pietros exclaimed, seeming to brighten upon laying eyes. He lunged forward as if to rise but stopped himself quickly. They had agreed that although it was never easy, Barca would lower himself down and rise himself up unless he requested help.

Once Barca was seated next to Pietros upon the mat, Pietros pulled him close for a quick kiss. How easily and simply the young man loved! Barca could only marvel for a second, while he choked down anger at the knowledge that he could do so little to protect Pietros now.

“I am taking a break,” Pietros said. He reached for a water skin and offered it to Barca with a raise of the eyebrows. “Just water, no wine.”

“Gratitude,” Barca said, taking it and gulping half of the contents.

“How wonderful it is,” Pietros said, tilting his head back against the wall. “To do one’s work and then decide to simply take a break! To possess choice.”

“Yes,” Barca agreed.

Back at the ludus, gladiators ceased training when the midday son reached a brutal peak. Not so for the porters. There were always tasks to be done, and Doctore truly never displayed much leniency towards the porters. Not even the one known as Barca’s pet. The porters sometimes were given a midday break, but it was always shorter than the gladiators’ and sometimes it went entirely absent if Doctore judged too many weapons in need of sharpening and too much of the training ground or dining area in need of cleaning. Barca remembered several scorching days when he himself had sat upon a bench in the shade or retired to his cell to rest, knowing that Pietros continued to labor, his heart aching for the young man’s predicament – while knowing there was little he could do to alleviate the burden. Certainly no gladiator could offer to assist with a porter’s chores without becoming the laughingstock of the ludus. And so Barca never made the offer.

“Let me take to massaging you now,” Pietros said. It was something he did frequently. He had done it back at the ludus as well, and now Barca often stood in need of it. He had soreness all over – his hips, his leg and foot, his arms and shoulders.

“I do not require it just now,” Barca replied. “Your hands yesterday performed such strong work that I am well now. But – gratitude.”

Pietros then asked Barca about his day, and then Barca did the same for Pietros.

“Camila and Euclid and others asked why I do not train to fight,” Pietros added, at the end of his recounting.

“What did you tell them?” Barca asked. He held one of Pietros’ hands but kept his gaze forward.

Pietros was silent for a bit. “I told them that I do not know why I don’t train.” He shrugged. “I suppose I am too afraid.”

Barca also took a moment to think. “I regret that I cannot protect you the way I was once able. And I wish for you a life free of combat. But…learning how to defend yourself and fight could only help you. Fear can be overcome.”

Pietros looked down and snorted with a shake of the head. “The other gladiators would laugh at me.”

“I will have words with them should they do so. Or **Crixus** will, since they no longer fear me,” Barca said firmly.

Barca then looked at Pietros and continued, “Do you want it? To train with the others?”

“Want, no. But we are part of a rebel army. And I have stood absent choice my entire life. So perhaps the matter is that I should do it even though I do not wish it.” Pietros paused. “Are you certain it would not cause you grief?”

“You are tall, uninjured, young, swift, and wise,” Barca answered. “You would make fine warrior.” He squeezed Pietros’ hand. “Would it give me grief? Just as you used to worry each time I left the ludus, I shall worry each time you pick up sword. Not because I doubt your competence but because I would rather see your life free of battle. And yes, I shall feel diminished by the fact that I cannot fight by your side. Yet you continue to stay by my side and I continue to praise the gods for reuniting us. So I shall bear whatever other feelings I have as I watch you train.”

Pietros slowly nodded. “The gods grant you wisdom. My heart gladdens at…your calm grasp of the entire situation.” He paused. “Perhaps I should begin training tomorrow then.”

“When you are rested and finished with your break, let us begin right after that. I shall show you a few moves.” Barca smiled and added, “You can thus enter your first training session at a slight advantage.”

Pietros looked at Barca and smiled, shaking his head once again. “The fates again are having enjoyment at our expense. Months ago I never would have dreamed….any of this!”

“Nor I. And yet here we are. Somehow both still alive and together – and out of harm’s way for the moment.”

Pietros then placed a hand on Barca’s thigh. “I know what pursuit I would like to take to, for the remainder of my break. If you are agreeable, I could fetch our blanket. It is hanging in the sun and should be dry by now.”

“I would be most amenable as well.”

The blanket would not provide much cover and nor would it remain in place, but it was better than loving each other out in the open, so Pietros and Barca put it to good use.

***

Several weeks passed and much transpired. Crixus set out with Spartacus and many others for the mines to find Naevia. Nasir was injured but still proved himself as the best of the new recruits. Agron led an effort to secure more fighting men. The rebels moved their base to a remote villa owned by a Roman called Lucius. As they regrouped there, attention turned to the most urgent business at hand: rescuing Crixus, Oenomaus, and the others from the Romans’ grasp.

For Barca and Pietros, they simply went along with the masses, the other non-combatants. Pietros was still training at use of a sword and he had a way yet to progress. Both he and Barca were thrilled at Naevia’s return; neither had known her well, but they knew what she meant to Crixus. Once Crixus could be pulled from Rome’s grasp, the two would stand reunited. Barca ached at his inability to take part in the effort to rescue Crixus. And Pietros continued to train alongside many former house slaves. He knew he was not progressing as rapidly as Nasir and others had, but Barca encouraged him to keep trying.

As Barca sat on the steps outside one evening sharpening weapons, Pietros hurried over to him.

“Barca!” Pietros said.

Barca took in the sight of his lover. He suspected what the bright, wide eyes indicated. Pietros had news, and it was the sort of news that made him excited and nervous.

“I am to take part,” Pietros said, as he sat himself next to Barca. “I know the arena’s layout and thus I am to be part of the effort to rescue Crixus and the others.”

Barca was silent for a moment. “You went to the arena twice, by my recollection,” he said quietly. Oenomaus rarely ordered the porters to accompany the group to the arena, but occasionally he had done so. However both times Pietros had gone with, Oenomaus had determined that it caused Barca distraction and thus he had decided that the second trip would be Pietros’ last.

“I remember it well. I certainly know it better than Mira, and she is going too,” Pietros added. He did as he often did when they sat side by side and placed a hand upon Barca’s thigh. He then said, “If Nasir were not injured, he would go. He stands far better warrior than I. But Spartacus said I am competent enough with sword now.”

Barca nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to throttle Spartacus. Pietros still stood so new to all of this, to combat. Did Spartacus truly need him on this mission? Was Barca to lose both his lover and his brother Crixus on this day? He forced a breath in and out, and looked at Pietros. “I now understand better,” he admitted. “How you sometimes worried when I left the ludus.”

“Sometimes?” Pietros echoed. “I **forever** worried when you left it. I hated it. But you helped me understand that you did what you must,” he said, with a tilt of his head.

Barca again was quiet for a moment or two. If only he had been kinder and more understanding back then, when Pietros had expressed his worries! If only he could join the rescue effort now instead of sitting here sharpening weapons! He tried to breathe again. How long before Pietros found another man, one who was strong and able? How long before Pietros and his new man became like Agron and Nasir, two warriors clearly in love and fighting side by side? As Barca and his first love Cyprian had once been, so long ago.

Barca forced himself to once more meet Pietros’ eyes. “You do not…do this out of a desire to impress Spartacus? Or anyone else?”

“I do it only because the rebellion needs fighting men. And in this case, they need people who have been to the arena before,” Pietros replied. He seemed calm. He leaned closer to Barca. “The thought of taking part does not fill me with happiness, but I do what I must.”

Barca nodded. “Then go, with my blessing and my love.”

They pressed their lips together, and shortly afterwards Barca could only watch Pietros head out with the others.

Time slowly crept by. Barca finished his work, and he debated heading over to the kitchen next. There were always pebbles to be picked out of bags of dried beans, or any number of items to be washed. It was better to do such menial work than to sit idle as the mind wandered.

As Barca made his way towards the kitchen, he passed Medicus’ area. Nasir sat upon a bed as Medicus seemed to examine the wound.

“Barca. Hand over clean bandage please,” Medicus rasped. “In the top drawer.”

Barca wordlessly procured the item and handed it over. As he did dozens of times each day he shuddered at thoughts of how the Barca of old would look upon himself now. He could drown in such thoughts.

When Medicus was finished tending to Nasir, the young Syrian said, “Stay awhile. Barca. Please.”

Barca nodded. “You look well. Back to training soon.” He was confused as to why Nasir wished to speak to him, and for a second he worried how it might look to passersby. With Agron and Pietros off on the mission to free Crixus, would anyone happening by think that Barca was making a move for Nasir? Of course the notion that Nasir would want this cripple – when he clearly already owned Agron’s heart – was laughable.

“I would have it so,” Nasir said. “Gratitude for all your instruction. You are a fierce fighter.”

“I was,” Barca smirked. “But no longer.”

Nasir looked around as if ascertaining that no one else was within earshot. “I wondered if you wished to break words on it. I…understand that the change in your circumstances must be difficult.”

As one arm held the omnipresent crutch, Barca’s other arm reached around to cover his torso. It was a reflexive, defensive move. He grunted in reply to Nasir.

Nasir continued, “I do not know if this will provide any comfort. But I, too, found myself with a change in circumstance when I went from valued body slave to rebel. It was thrust upon me absent my choice. I first viewed it as terrible loss of status and could not believe the cruelty of the fates.”

“The fates are indeed brutal,” Barca grumbled. He added, with a slight nod, “You adjust well.”

“As do you. I do not know you outside of the training grounds, but you seem to me as if you are adjusting best you can.”

Barca shook his head and avoided Nasir’s gaze. “Every day I silently curse the fates and I wait for Pietros to leave me for a real man. I simmer with rage but I choke it all down.”

“As does every slave, every day,” Nasir said straightforwardly. “I presume you formerly used arena as your means of ridding yourself of rage. What do you use now?”

Barca for a second admired how forthright Nasir was, but then reminded himself – why wouldn’t Nasir be bold? Barca himself was no longer feared gladiator, just as Nasir was no longer house slave.

“Nothing,” Barca answered, equally candid. “The rage is all there. I assume it will burst forth some day.”

“I have seen others use various methods. Some take to drink – or take people to bed to fuck. Some take to prayer and communion with the gods. I believe the best way is to think upon how we can best serve the rebellion.”

“I think the same. I watched Pietros leave for this mission and could do nothing but tell myself it was all for the good of our cause so that Crixus may be freed and some day Rome might be taken down.”

Barca then decided a change of topic was in order. “You must stand eager for Agron to return,” he said. He smiled. “I believe many here enjoy seeing the fire between you two.”

“It almost overwhelms at times,” Nasir admitted. “To feel so strongly for another, to relentlessly ponder when I might again set eyes on him.” He took a breath and then clutched at his wound, perhaps instinctively. “It is difficult to think of him gone from here, on the mission. And yet if we are to take down Rome….then we have many such days ahead of us.”

Barca remained speaking to Nasir for a little longer. It was good. He rarely broke words of this nature with anyone other than Pietros, and Barca felt it a small balm. If nothing else, the distraction helped take his mind off of the worst. He had been thinking of what he might do should Pietros not return from this mission, and that was an abyss that he could not fall into.

Perhaps an hour later, Barca dozed upon his mat. Just as in the rebels’ last base, this mat was also inside a simple hallway against a wall – though this time they had a curtain hanging over it to provide an iota of privacy. At some point during his slumber, Barca began to feel someone else’s body take shape around his. The sensation was pleasant and familiar, and he groaned lightly with pleasure at the warmth.

“Barca. I’m back,” a whispered voice said.

Barca again groaned. Still partially asleep, he subconsciously understood that his mate lay next to him.

“I could not do it. A coward, I asked Spartacus to allow me to return here. Long before we reached the arena. The others continue with the mission. And here I am.”

Barca slowly left his slumber and began to take in the situation. Pietros lay at his side.

“You are here!” Barca said, waking up. “Safe and in my arms!” His eyes grew wide and he clutched at Pietros tightly. Relief danced through Barca’s veins.

“Yes,” Pietros said. “Because I stand a coward. Because I had to ask Spartacus for permission to return.”

Barca began to laugh. Pietros tensed, and turned away. “You mock me,” Pietros said, and Barca’s heart nearly shattered at the misunderstanding.

“No, no!” Barca insisted. “I laugh only because we are quite the pair.”

Pietros raised eyebrows.

“I lack one leg. You lack courage. And here we are,” Barca said. His words were simple and free of judgment.

Pietros shook his head. “I am worthless coward.” He looked as if he wished to spit the words out.

Barca understood the shame. The sense that you were not enough, that you were inherently bad and flawed and perhaps even cursed. “And I am worthless cripple. What a pair!”

“Would that I had your courage or you had my leg,” Pietros said quietly.

Barca reached for Pietros and kissed his cheek. “I am overjoyed that you are here by my side. Think no more about this. You do not mind loving a mere cripple, so I shall not mind loving a coward!”

Pietros laughed, perhaps enjoying Barca’s light tone or perhaps out of a bemused desperation. He shook his head. “You know, I am furious,” he said, with a snort. “At the gods and this terrible world they created, absent all reason. At myself for failure! At having been used like an animal from the day I was old enough to walk!”

Barca loosened his grasp. He recognized that Pietros now needed to give voice to his anger, and he listened.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
